Ghost Blades

by Anthony Masters

  Terry couldn’t think what to reply. Then he noticed, with a sudden shock, that the stairs had changed. They had become soft and pliable, as if they were made of silk, and they shimmered just as Joe’s shoulders did. The sight was horrifying and the sweat from his forehead poured into his eyes. Was this really happening to him or was he ill?

  ‘We could play football,’ Joe wheedled.

  ‘Upstairs?’

  ‘You can do anything upstairs.’

  Desperately, Terry tried another tack. ‘Let’s go outside.’ He had to get away from those silky stairs.

  Joe gazed at him perplexed. ‘I can’t go outside.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I can’t. You come with me.’ He was getting angry all over again.

  Terry grabbed the blades. He felt beaten, tearful, and he didn’t know what to do next. Joe was walking towards him.

  ‘I don’t want to,’ said Terry stubbornly. ‘I’m not going upstairs.’

  ‘I’ll make you.’ Joe smirked, knowing his power.

  ‘If you come outside,’ said Terry, trying to ignore the threat, determined not to give in, ‘you can have a go on my Rollerblades.’

  ‘You mean roller-skates?’

  ‘Sort of.’

  ‘I’ve got mine upstairs.’ Once again he used that terrifying word. ‘You can see them in my room.’

  But Terry was still determined that he wouldn’t go up those silky stairs. They seemed to be rustling slightly now, as if they were waves lapping gently on a shore. Instead, he suddenly dashed back into the kitchen and threw himself against the door.

  But yet again, nothing happened. Joe giggled. It was a sinister sound.

  ‘They’re nice,’ he said, but didn’t attempt to touch them. ‘Better than roller-skates.’

  ‘No one uses roller-skates now.’

  Once again Joe was puzzled. ‘But mine are new. Mum’s only just bought them. I’ll show you.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I told you – I’ll make you.’

  ‘You won’t!’

  Joe grinned. ‘Just see.’ He stepped back, staring, a malicious smile on his chalk white face. Terry felt a tight band round his mind. He knew he would do just what Joe said. He had to do what Joe said.

  Like a robot he walked towards the stairs while Joe turned his shimmering back on him and began to run up. Terry followed shakily, feeling as if he was treading on soggy cotton-wool that would give way at any minute. He could smell cold earth again.

  Five

  When Terry reached the landing, he gasped in disbelief. He had expected to see a burnt-out ruin, but instead he was standing on an unmarked linoleum. In front of him each door had a plaque. MUM & DAD. ELIZABETH. JOE.

  There were pictures on the shining white walls, a table scattered with magazines and a vase of fresh flowers. It was as if the house was lived in again – as if the fire hadn’t happened.

  Joe pushed open his bedroom door and ran inside. As Terry followed him, he saw the shimmering again, on the edges of the wall, on the pictures, the table, even on a pair of football boots. He touched the door and it was like the stairs – soft and silky, slightly moist.

  Joe’s bedroom was hazy. It was also an incredible mess; the bed was unmade, half buried under a mound of comics, and the floor was covered with toys – miniature cars on a race track, a football, a train set, a cricket bat and stumps and a half-finished jigsaw puzzle. Football posters were plastered over most of the walls and a dart-board hung askew.

  Terry gazed into Joe’s face, half recognising something familiar, just like he had with the girl in the photograph downstairs.

  ‘Why are you staring at me?’

  ‘You remind me of someone.’

  ‘Who?’

  Then the memory clicked. Joe reminded him of Alan.

  ‘I can’t remember,’ he hedged, not wanting any more complications, still trying to focus his mind on how to escape.

  ‘Thanks a lot.’

  Joe went over to his roller-skates and began to put them on, reminding Terry that he was still clutching the precious blades.

  ‘Let’s go then,’ he said calmly.

  ‘Outside?’ The relief was so great that Terry felt an overwhelming sense of release.

  ‘No. Just get your blades on!’ The threat was back and slowly, reluctantly, Terry did as he was told.

  ‘Now,’ said Joe, gazing ahead. As his eyes widened, so did the walls, until he and Terry were standing in a cold, blank space that seemed to stretch to infinity.

  ‘What’s happening?’ Terry gasped, his panic increasing.

  ‘It won’t last long. Do you know what? I saw Mum and Dad walking on the horizon out there the other day. I couldn’t get to them though. It wasn’t fair.’ There was a catch in Joe’s voice. ‘But ever since I saw them I got strong. I got strong enough to make friends.’

  Take prisoners, more likely, thought Terry.

  ‘Let’s get going,’ said Joe. ‘Before the space closes down.’

  His heart pounding, Terry started to rollerblade while Joe skated. At first he was cautious, waiting for the walls to reappear, but as Joe began to speed up so did he, and soon they were both hurtling along what appeared to be smooth, bare wooden boards that stretched limitlessly in front of them.

  An unexpected feeling of sudden joy filled Terry and his fear temporarily disappeared. Joe was beside him, but he was just a blur, and the sensation of speed increased as they both flew on to nowhere. Terry had never felt such a glorious sense of freedom before, never felt such happiness. It was extraordinary.

  Above them, slowly emerging from a bank of low, foggy cloud, was a vast canopy of stars, their light bright and piercing, icy cold.

  Soon Terry was no longer cautious and was blading faster and faster, staring up at the heavens above, with all their jewelled clarity. He could see the constellations, the Milky Way, and a huge white moon that had its own special radiance.

  Terry’s spirits lifted until he was so elated he was yelling in delight.

  Then, with a snap, the space closed down and he hit the wall.

  Terry saw stars again, but this time in his head. Slowly the pain went, leaving him dizzy and sick, and he began to tremble with shock and despair. He wanted the space again, wanted to feel the heady delight, but instead he was back in the misty misery of Joe’s ghostly bedroom.

  Joe was sitting on the floor, quietly undoing his skates as if nothing had happened. Terry refocused abruptly, taking off his blades, knowing he was trapped again.

  ‘I’m always stuck in this house,’ complained Joe. ‘Sometimes the space comes when I put on my roller-skates. Most times it doesn’t.’

  ‘What is the space?’ asked Terry in bewilderment.

  ‘I don’t know. Once I thought it was heaven. But it’s always closing down. It’s not fair. My sister wouldn’t let me be unhappy like this. She’s older than me.’ He paused. ‘I’m waiting for her to tell me what to do.’ Joe was glaring at Terry with growing hostility. ‘It’s all right for you, isn’t it? You’re free.’ Then he grinned but the grin was malicious again. ‘Or at least you think you are.’

  ‘What are you on about?’ demanded Terry.

  ‘If you don’t tell me where my family is, I’ll keep you here for ever. If Liz won’t help me – you will!’

  A cold, clammy hand seemed to be creeping about in Terry’s stomach. ‘You can’t do that.’

  ‘Want me to show you what I can do?’ Joe got up and began to walk towards him.

  ‘There’s nothing you can do to me.’ Terry tried bravado.

  ‘So how do you think you got here?’

  ‘On my blades.’

  ‘Just like that?’

  It wasn’t just like that, but Terry wasn’t going to admit anything. He was locked in battle with Joe, and although he wasn’t sure if he could win he knew he had to try. He couldn’t give up and become his prisoner.

  ‘I made your blades come,’ said Joe calmly, as if it was all quite natura
l.

  ‘I’m going home,’ Terry replied shakily. As he spoke he wondered if he should tell Joe that he looked a bit like Alan. Would that make any difference? Would that make Joe help him? But perhaps it wasn’t such a good idea. If he did tell him, then Joe might drag Alan into all this too. Terry couldn’t let him do that, so he had to use his willpower instead. ‘Goodbye, Joe,’ he said firmly. ‘I’m going now.’

  The football began to bounce on its own, slowly at first and then speeding up, getting higher and higher. The noise in the quiet hazy room seemed incredibly loud.

  Grabbing the blades Terry ran to the door, and when he glanced back, saw to his amazement that the attic room was empty. It had charred walls and a blackened ceiling. There was no bed, no scattering of possessions, no Joe. Only the football that was bouncing along beside him.

  What kind of trick was this, Terry wondered, reaching for the handle. Was Joe letting him go? Just like that? After all his threats? It didn’t seem likely. And yet …

  He pulled open the door and the football hit him on the head – hard. The ball hit him again and again, with such ferocity that Terry lashed out, trying to drive it away. But the football kept bouncing between him and the dangerously crumbling stairs, herding Terry back into Joe’s room.

  He collapsed on the floor, still fighting the football as it bounced off his doubled up body, hitting his face and shoulders, the leather stinging painfully, until Terry yelled, ‘Stop it, Joe. You’ve got to stop.’

  But the football went on punishing him to the sound of Joe’s delighted laughter.

  Six

  Slowly the bedroom reformed itself. Joe sat grinning on his rumpled comic-strewn bed, still laughing in his awful muddle of a prison. The football bounced itself back into a corner, while Terry clambered to his feet, bruised and shaken.

  ‘I can make that ball do things,’ said Joe. ‘It’s my weapon. Useful, isn’t it? I can do other things too,’ he added, but now his eyes were full of tears. ‘I can see the past. Or some of it. But it frightens me, and afterwards – when I’ve looked back – I get really tired and I have to rest for a while.’ Joe paused. ‘Something happened,’ he said. ‘Something frightening, but I don’t fully understand what.’ He paused and looked more hopeful. ‘Maybe you will.’ He closed his eyes and the room moved with a life of its own, shifting restlessly like an ocean. A cold wind sent the football rolling across the floor and Joe and the mess in his bedroom began to shimmer.

  Clothes drifted back into cupboards, the bed made itself, the mountain of comics rose in the air and sorted themselves into a tidy pile on the floor. The miniature cars and race track flew on to the shelf, the half-finished jigsaw took itself to pieces and drifted into a chest, closely followed by the cricket ball and stumps. The darts board straightened itself up and Joe got into bed. He slept.

  Then Terry watched the bedroom door slowly open.

  A middle-aged woman quietly came in and went over to Joe. Although her clothes were out-dated she was beautiful, tall and elegant, wearing a long dress. A man in a dark suit quietly followed.

  Joe’s mother put a finger to her lips and leant over her son, kissing his cheek.

  ‘God bless,’ she said. ‘Sleep tight.’

  ‘Don’t forget to leave the light on, Mum,’ he muttered, waking but still half asleep.

  ‘Of course I won’t. Do I ever?’

  His parents crept out, gently closed the door and Joe turned over, snuggling down again.

  Terry didn’t want to watch any more because he was sure something dreadful was going to happen. This was much worse than the ghostly bullying, but he had to stay now, had to be with Joe while the terrible thing happened.

  Thunder began to grumble outside and lightning flashed. Terry could dimly hear the murmur of voices downstairs and the radio was playing a song he recognised:

  Smile when you feel like crying,

  Laugh when you feel like dying …

  Never had Joe’s room seemed so terrifying, but Terry knew he had to be beside him, knew he had to understand.

  Thunder growled again but Joe slept on. The room was almost completely silent except for the distant sounds of life downstairs.

  Then suddenly the plug in the wall socket began to crackle, throwing out sparks and then little darts of blue flame. To Terry’s horror, the darts became tongues, leaping at the carpet with a little spluttering sound. Slowly the material ignited and dense black smoke billowed towards Joe’s bed.

  Terry wanted to wake him, to stop it all happening, but he knew he couldn’t. This was the past. It couldn’t be altered.

  Joe began to cry out and Terry was again desperate to help him. He wanted to warn Joe, to drag him from the bed, but it was as if his legs were encased in concrete. The smoke covered the bed like a dark blanket and Joe began to choke. Then the door burst open and his parents ran in, disbelief in their eyes, their faces deeply shocked.

  As if sensing more victims, the smoke leapt towards them, a great black spume of death.

  Suddenly, the terrible scene seemed to snap shut, as if a blind had come down, and Terry was plunged back into darkness.

  Then it gradually lifted and he realised he was in the middle of the burnt-out room. The only object that remained was the football, which was motionless.

  What about Joe’s sister, Terry wondered. Had Elizabeth died in the fire too? And why did Joe remind him so much of Alan?

  ‘Joe,’ he whispered.

  There was no reply. Terry heard the traffic rumbling outside and wondered if he could escape at last. But what about the burnt stairs? Would he be able to climb down?

  ‘Joe?’

  Slowly a little mist rose from the blackened floor and he could see him, barely formed, just a thin sliver of a boy. As Joe had predicted, he was totally exhausted by bringing back his terrible past.

  Terry hurried to the door, opened it and then paused. No football bounced at him. No unseen power pulled him back. Was Joe so tired he couldn’t hold him here any longer, or would he regain his strength and his power over him?

  In the end Terry realised he was in control again. Joe had lost out because he had tried to show him the past, in the hope he could be helped. Terry paused. Joe had gambled and lost. Surely he owed him something. Surely he couldn’t just leave him here alone. For ever. ‘I’ll try to find them,’ he muttered over his shoulder. ‘I promise I will.’

  But when Terry arrived at the top of the stairs, he realised that escape wasn’t going to be easy, for they were no longer silky smooth. The stairs were almost burnt through.

  Slowly he began to edge his way down, stepping as gingerly as possible, sure the charred stair treads would crumble at any moment. He felt something give and tried to step back, but his foot plunged through the burnt-out stair.

  Trapped in carbonised wood that he knew might give way at any moment, Terry stared down into the dark abyss below. He was alone. Just like Joe.

  ‘Joe!’ Terry yelled desperately, trying not to move.

  There was no response, only a deep, impenetrable silence.

  ‘I need you, Joe,’ he whispered. ‘I need you.’

  Still no reply.

  ‘Please, Joe. Please.’

  The whispering slowly began, penetrating the burnt shell of the building, seeming to come from everywhere, rising and falling on the dead air of the abandoned house.

  ‘Too weak. Too weak.’

  ‘Joe!’ Terry moved slightly and then gave an agonised yell as the stairs began to crumble. A large section fell into the stairwell with a loud thud and Terry wondered if he would soon plunge after it. Then he and Joe would be ghosts together, companions for ever with only the space – that mysterious space – to give them a brief glimpse of freedom. But that wouldn’t be enough. Would never be enough.

  As the knocking on the front door began, the freezing cold earthy smell returned and the stairs jerked into their silky texture again.

  ‘Go now,’ whispered Joe. ‘I can’t hold on.’
r />   Without hesitation Terry desperately worked his way carefully down the two flights of stairs, the Rollerblades still tightly gripped in his hand. He could see the front door being rattled, and as it slowly and unwillingly opened, the silky stairs vanished and Terry was pitched on to the hall floor in a cloud of choking black dust.

  Seven

  ‘Are you ok?’ Terry dragged himself to his feet, hardly able to believe Alan was standing over him, looking so anxious and questioning.

  ‘I guessed you’d be here when I saw the blades were missing. We came straight down.’ Alan stared at Terry incredulously. ‘What on earth’s been going on?’

  ‘You certainly look a sight.’ Mrs Forester tried to stay calm as she stroked his hair in the way he hated. She looked terribly afraid, but there was something else – a deep sadness that her husband seemed to share.

  ‘Are you – Joe’s parents?’ Terry blurted out.

  Mrs Forester shook her head, but before she could speak, Alan interrupted, the words tumbling out as if he was glad to make his confession at last.

  ‘Those blades – they made me come here. I was scared stiff. That’s why I wanted to sell them. That’s why I didn’t want you to have them. But I should have told you.’ His voice petered out.

  ‘I’m Joe’s sister,’ said Mrs Forester slowly and painfully. ‘Liz. I never spoke out either – never told Alan about any of this. I couldn’t bear to. The house was bought by a property company that went bankrupt.’ Her voice broke. ‘That’s why it was never pulled down. I always wanted to come back, but I never had the courage. I even left that photograph here.’ Liz went over and picked it up, staring down, her lips working but no sound coming out.

  ‘What happened, Mum?’ asked Alan, running over and putting his arms round her. ‘I know my grandparents and my Uncle Joe were killed – but you never said how.’

  ‘We’ll talk about it all later,’ said his father nervously, as if he were anxious to normalise everything. But Terry knew he couldn’t do that.

  ‘Joe’s here,’ Terry blurted out. ‘He’s waiting for you.’ He gazed up into Liz’s horrified eyes.